


Clock Move

by Delcat



Series: From the Indeterminate Time Gap [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, Biting, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Bondage, Branding, Burns, Dominance, Frottage, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Smoking, Stuttering, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1906008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delcat/pseuds/Delcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maxwell gets tired of his pet underperforming and decides to teach him endurance, and Wilson makes a request of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clock Move

"If—a-and I’m just saying this as, as a guess, f-feel free to stop me—if you’re th-there—"  
  
Little things.  Little differences.  The lights were organic now.  Funny little flowers.  
  
"—if and _s-s-s-strictly_ speaking ‘if’ because I don’t want to presume—ih, if this is for my b-benefit—”  
  
The room already smelled of smoke, but there weren’t many rooms that didn’t.  It didn’t actually mean there was someone there and listening.  
  
"—helping me r, remember, I mean?  Then, I—I a-appreciate the thought but—I remember—"  
  
He remembered the restraints being padded.  He remembered pain strong enough to sell his dignity for.  He remembered it not being a high price to begin with.  
  
"I remember everything—I mean, I—I don’t r-remember everything, obviously, b-but I remember almost ever—I remember close t-to—I remember a _l-lot including this v-very clearly s-so you r-really don’t have to_ —”  
  
A gloved hand reached from the yawning darkness of Wilson’s blind spot and covered his mouth, and he remembered, very distinctly, that he had at least _started_ with clothes last time.  And a blanket, or something resembling one.  The hospital bed had contained a lot more layers and a lot less naked.  He was _very_ sure he remembered that.  
  
"Calm down, pet.  Think of it as a second honeymoon."  
  
Wilson angled free and made a weak attempt to snap back. “—d-did we ever have a first?”  
  
He chuckled, and Wilson tried not to squirm as he stroked his adam’s apple lightly.  The last time he had been here, he had been giddy with pain and fear and encroaching sickness and drugs and Maxwell’s presence, and now he was…well, Maxwell’s presence was worth a lot, apparently.  He thought he could see him if he turned his head enough, but he didn’t want to move with Maxwell’s hand on him, and he also wasn’t sure he wanted to see his expression.  He was…Wilson was very naked.  Maybe if he ignored the fact it’d go away.  
  
The hypothesis was swiftly disproven as Maxwell’s hand slid down his scarred chest to test the strength of his erection, and his cheeks went hot as it hardened further at his touch.  He didn’t need to turn around, he could _feel_ him smirking.  
  
"Do I excite you that much, Mr. Higgsbury?" He finally moved into full sight, sitting next to him on the bed, and yes, smirking, of course.  "I’m touched."  
  
"It’s just—I j-just—was—" Wilson floundered as he realized he had no excuse.  It was silly anyway, he’d already admitted as much, in many more words, some of them even coherent.  
  
"Thinking about last night?" Maxwell was stroking him now, lazily but skillfully. "I don’t remember you trying to pretty it up then." He increased his pace, and Wilson twisted under him, whimpering despite himself. "Never heard that kind of language in my life, actually."  
  
Wilson’s chest was hot, his cheeks hotter, but the taunting drew sick pleasure out of him, plucked at that ill-hidden thread in the back of his skull that reveled in it, and mind and body pressed into the degradation, tempting more. “…y-you _made_ me…”  
  
"Did I, really?  I don’t think it was my idea.  Not first, anyway." Maxwell leaned in against him and he moaned as he breathed smoke on his ear. "It brought back memories.  Same filthy mouth, same filthy mind…"  
  
His voice—his breath on his neck, his voice and the things it was _saying_ , and his hand on his—his _cock_ —Wilson cried out, arching, tensing for the oncoming rush of pleasure—  
  
"Same unsatisfactory results."  
  
Maxwell pulled away at the last possible moment, and Wilson produced a heavy, strangled sound at the sudden deprivation, handcuffs digging painful stripes into his wrists and ankles as his hips bucked fruitlessly. “— _Maxwell_ —”  
  
"Yes?" He lit a fresh cigar unhurriedly, seemingly oblivious to the way Wilson’s harsh trembling shook the bedframe.  
  
"—d-d-don’t _stop_ —please, I-I w-was—”  
  
"About to come all over yourself?" Maxwell stroked his neck, and Wilson pulled toward him again, desperate.  Every nerve in his body was awake and in agony, his arousal unable to settle under his master’s attentions, unable to resolve under his lack of them. "I noticed.  You don’t mind taking liberties, do you?  You just can’t help yourself, even if the man gracious enough to be giving you what you get down on your knees for isn’t completely… _thoroughly_ …satisfied.” His grip tightened in emphasis, and Wilson’s protest came out as a squeak. “It’s time someone taught you a little control.”  
  
He stood and disappeared into Wilson’s blind spot again, and this time he couldn’t see him even by craning his neck. “What—wh-what do you—d-do you w-want me to b, beg a-again?” He would.  Gladly.  
  
"I expect it.  But…not yet."  
  
Wilson stifled a groan, finally collapsing back on the bed.  Fine.  _Fine._   His body was starting to return to normal anyway.  He could wait this out.  Maxwell—  
  
—was Maxwell watching him?  Just… _watching_ him like this, exposed and bound and with precum cooling on his—  
  
What little ground he had gained against his body was lost at the thought, and he squirmed, gritting his teeth.  
  
"Careful, sweetheart." Maxwell squeezed his hand warningly as the cuffs dug in again. "These suckers bite.  I should know."  
  
"— _what?_ " Mental images sprang up and layered like playing cards, any one of them too much to look at directly in his mind.  _Maxwell_ bound— _Maxwell_ like this, or just his hands, or _not_ just his hands, Maxwell helpless like this—  
  
"Mind wandering again?" Wilson bit his lip hard, forced his arching hips back to the sheets. "There’s your problem.  Focus on something."  
  
"I’m—I’m t-terrible at focusing on things _y-you know th_ —”  
  
Wilson’s protest was cut off by Maxwell’s hand on his throat—not gripping, not threatening, just laid there, a steady weight.  His thumb began stroking again, and Wilson _did_ focus, entranced but not overwhelmed by the cool leather on his skin.  
  
He wished, not for the first time, that he understood Maxwell as much as Maxwell apparently understood him.  
  
It wasn’t that he didn’t try, and it wasn’t that Maxwell didn’t notice that.  The man was demanding, conniving, and thoroughly unrepentant about taking what he wanted, but he was also, in his own way, extraordinarily patient.  When he had taken Wilson in for the second time, sick and shivering and with a head full of poison, it had been…he remembered more than Maxwell probably thought he did.  It had been hell for _both_ of them.  But he hadn’t given up on him.  He still wasn’t giving up on him.  He…  
  
"There.  See?"  
  
The hand lifted, and Wilson realized he was…calm.  Entirely.  In all regions.  Maxwell sat next to him on the bed again, and he shivered, but kept from moving toward him.  
  
"You just need a little discipline, that’s all."  
  
Wilson tried to banish the mental images more quickly this time.  It wasn’t easy.  He doubted Maxwell’s interpretation of the word “discipline” was the same as his own, but the appraising nature of his expression made him wonder.  “…what n-now?”  
  
"Heh." Maxwell knelt betwen Wilson’s legs, exposing himself easily, and grinned. "What do you think?"  
  
Wilson sighed shakily, eyes half-lidded, relaxing even as his body stirred again.  He knew how things went from here, he _enjoyed_ how things went from here, it was just a matter of—  
  
Wilson jerked in shock as Maxwell’s hand closed around both of their cocks, stroking them together, cool leather and sweet friction opposing each other unbearably. “ _M-Maxwell_ —”  
  
"Thought wrong?" He leaned in to balance, running his free hand up the scar on Wilson’s chest to rest it firmly on his good shoulder. "Don’t.  Not unless you feel like spending the night here in your own filth." He bit his neck, drawing a whimper from Wilson’s lips. "It’s an option…"  
  
The handcuff chains shook as Wilson writhed under him, torn between wanting to press in, needing to pull away.  Maxwell didn’t make idle threats, and the idea of being left bound and shivering and soiled in the hospital room was—was confusing, terrifying and delicious in equal parts to the fever his senses had become.  It was too much to try to take in.  Everything about Maxwell was exaggerated, his speech, his gestures, his movements, his— _size_ —  
  
Wilson wasn’t a small man by any means, but the vulgar show being played out between their bodies underlined their differences in bright red pencil, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from it.  His master’s long fingers curled easily around them both, speeding and slowing, teasing relentlessly, and Wilson gasped as he flicked his thumb between their cocks, drawing a clear slick line down their lengths, taking Wilson’s pleasure for himself.  
  
Taking him.  Using him.  But not how he could be taken, _could_ be used, and _God_ he wanted that right now, but…  
  
"Enjoying the view, pal?"  
  
Maxwell started to smile as his pet’s body stilled, then broke as easily into a grimace as Wilson contorted desperately beneath him. “Godammit, you just don’t _listen_ —”  
  
He dropped the word, jerking in shock as the desperate motions stopped, and looked down, face coloring just slightly.  
  
Wilson held his position as best he could, the head of his cock nestled under that of his master’s, hips lifted, bad leg shaking with the effort of even pressing up against him, and when he looked at Maxwell, it was with mute supplication.  
  
 _He could learn._  
  
"…heh." Maxwell wrapped his arm around Wilson’s hip, supporting him, and he gasped in relief. "Good boy."  
  
Wilson swallowed, face hot, trembling from exertion. “—ih—if—i, if you—a l-l-l, little lower and I can—” He bit back a pained noise as Maxwell’s hand brushed his thigh, body tightening and then relaxing, panting softly.  
  
"Well?"  
  
He swallowed again and began rocking up against Maxwell, weakly at first and then strengthening as both hands guided him into a slow rhythm.  The rare touch of bare skin was still intoxicating, but the slight, tempered signs of his master’s hunger being drawn out rivaled it.  They _were_ slight, but Wilson paid more attention than Maxwell thought, noticed the tightening of his grip, the soft exhalations, the narrowing of his eyes.  He had grown to savor him gritting his teeth because it was the moment before he _used_ them, and as Maxwell kissed the delicate skin between neck and collarbone, he whimpered urgently, goading the bite from a bruise into something more—  
  
Wilson cried out as Maxwell drew blood, losing his composure, and as he bucked his hips something in his leg twisted, sending him back flat against the sheets in muddled, shuddering agony.  
  
 _God.  Dammit._  
  
Maxwell pushed himself back up to his knees, and Wilson tried to follow, but couldn’t rise enough even for the handcuffs to stop him.  
  
"—please don’t s-stop I w-w-wasn’t I was _t-trying M-Maxwell pl_ —”  
  
"Shhh."  
  
Maxwell put a finger to his lips to stem the jumbled pleading, and he closed his eyes with a soft keening noise, a tic working at the corner of his mouth.  
  
"Keep tellin’ you about these war wounds, pal." His fingertips dug into the spasming muscle of his pet’s thigh, and Wilson’s entire body went tense in panic before they started working roughly, relaxing only as they started untying the dry-heat pain.  The sound of relief he made was just…sound, something approaching a sob that fell and was lost. "You don’t know when to quit."  
  
Frustration put his words back together. “…I—th-thought you w, wanted me to k-keep going.”  
  
” _Heh._ " Maxwell seemed genuinely pleased. "Lippy little bastard."  
  
Maxwell laid down easily alongside him, erection pressed casually into his side, ignoring Wilson’s own need as he continued massaging his leg.  Wilson moaned once, then again as Maxwell’s tongue pressed into the wound on his neck, licking the blood away and then sucking it fresh, eyes half-lidded and predatory.  Pain mounting, pain dissolving, and the endless, tireless ache of arousal—it was too much to take, sweet and heavy and hazed.  He couldn’t focus it away, couldn’t try to, and as Maxwell rubbed slowly against his side, desperation won out.  
  
"…f-fuck me…"  
  
"Can’t hear you."  
  
Wilson swallowed and tried again, voice tight. “F-fuck me, please, I, I can’t take it…”  
  
Maxwell turned his head with one hand, and the heat in Wilson’s stomach jerked heavily at the sight of lips painted with his own blood. “You sure you want to push me right now?”  
  
He wanted to close his eyes, but he forced himself not to look away. “I…I d-don’t care, I don’t c-care what you do to me, j-just—f- _fuck me_ , please, I n, need this, I c-c-c—cuh—” He balled his hands into fists as the words snarled. “Maxwell—please, I can’t t-take it, I need y-you inside me, I n-need you to _own_ me, y, you can do wh-whatever you w-want just f- _fuck_ me _oh God l-let me c-come_ —”  
  
He was cut off by a rough kiss, Maxwell’s tongue pressing into his mouth, and he sucked at it feverishly, craving the hot ferric taste that lingered there.  He tried to chase after him as he broke off and Maxwell held him to the bed by his throat, grinning.  
  
"Calm down, pet.  You’re convincing." His grin widened as Wilson’s face and shoulders went red. "What do you say we make a game of it?"  
  
Giving up was easier than this.  Knowing he was giving himself up to Maxwell was stability, but throwing himself on his unpredictable mercy was—there were things he didn’t want to remember, but God, he had no _choice_.  “…wh-what, what kind of game?”  
  
"Just show me you really got this into that thick skull of yours." He lit a cigar and held the match. "Keep me occupied until I finish this, and you win.  Maybe even get a little reward out of it.  Disappoint me, and…"  
  
The flame snuffed easily between his gloved fingertips.  
  
Unpredictable.  He could project punishments easily, couldn’t stop projecting them, each more vicious than the last, and that as much as anything made his arms pull tight against his bonds again. “— _ngh_ —y-yes, all right, I, I’ll do it, just _please_ —”  
  
Maxwell covered his mouth, pushing him down again, and as slicked fingers pushed roughly into him, the gasping breath he stole was laced with smoke.  He still didn’t know what Maxwell used for lubrication, just that it gave him headaches the day after but spiked something like drunken vertigo through him in the moment, and he struggled to—to—  
  
Wilson realized that he wasn’t struggling, that if he had touched him like this before, he would have lost himself, but that now the aggressive blessing of his hand wasn’t enough, wasn’t close to enough.  He needed to be taken, fucked, bled, broken, _violated_ —  
  
"—what?"  
  
The glove lifted, and as Wilson saw Maxwell’s predatory expression it clicked that he had been thinking out loud.  His face went red again, the blush spreading down into his chest. “—f-fuck me?” He shuddered deeply as Maxwell just barely touched his bad shoulder, panic sparking up along with vague, confused guilt at trying to get away with it. “Vuh—v- _violate_ me, make it—make it r-rough, you’re right, I l-like—”  
  
He winced as Maxwell cut him off with a quick yank to the hair. “All you had to do was ask.”  
  
The first thrust was brutal, filling him too quickly, too deeply, too tightly, and Wilson cried out into Maxwell’s shoulder as the handcuffs beaded blood down one arm, then again, and again, wordless in his hunger.  He tried to pull his body away from Maxwell’s, trembling, and groaned as he chuckled and pulled them against each other with one arm.  
  
"I don’t like cheaters, precious.  This is what you like, isn’t it?" The smooth silk of Maxwell’s waistcoat was already almost unbearable, and Wilson moaned again, shaking harder as his master lifted to reveal the dark stains his dripping cock was leaving on it.  It _was_ what he liked, and what Maxwell rarely indulged him in, and— _who was the one cheating?_  
  
"Just being generous, pet."  
  
Smoke ghosted over Wilson’s ear as he murmured into it, and he couldn’t hold back a quiet, hysterical laugh at seeing the cigar was just half-gone.  His generosity was going to kill him.  He didn’t care.  Maxwell was fucking him, _spoiling_ him, and he could die for that.  
  
Maxwell’s smirk faded at the laughter, and he covered Wilson’s mouth. “If you make this difficult, I’m going to have to—”  
  
Wilson kissed his palm, tongue following the curve of the leather unabashedly, and as Maxwell cut himself off, he was sure that he caught the glint in his eye that said he could make this as difficult as he wanted.  
  
"Heh.  Fuckin’ whore." Maxwell curled his fingers into Wilson’s mouth, and he worked his tongue against them, surrendering the shadow-play of fellatio in return for the taste of smoke and sweat—he would let Maxwell take him both ways at once if he could, dreamed it sometimes, woke up with an ache as deep as the one his master had worked up in him now— _God_ , the ache that was working in him now. “If you were better at this, I’d say you _were_ one.  Ever think of selling it, sweetheart?”  
  
His pace was rising, and he fucked Wilson the same way he bullied him, tortuously skilled but maddeningly casual.  Wilson was shaking, sweating, burning under him, and Maxwell was cat-calm as he pulled his hand back to turn his face appraisingly. “Shame there’s no one around.  Doll you up a little and I could have you out at a pretty good price.”  
  
"S-stop—" It was a soft hiss through gritted teeth, the time he had bought with defiance used up and being used against him now, awful scenarios tugging at his focus with the perverse intensity of thorns pulling out of flesh.  
  
"Don’t be shy, doll." He blew smoke over his face, this time enough to choke him, and he smiled easily, soothingly as Wilson gasped for air. "I’d take care of you.  You’d get _violated_ as much as you wanted and more, get fucked until you couldn’t move from it, and I’d be right there to make sure you kept the customers satisfied.”  Wilson coughed, eyes stinging, shaking his head in fervent, dishonest denial, and Maxwell exhaled through his teeth as he pressed into him. “And at the end of the day, if you asked nicely enough, I’d let you get down on your knees for me.” He nestled his hand in Wilson’s hair and pulled. “Pretty little picture, don’t you think?”  
  
Overheated, overstimulated, overwhelmed, Wilson understood with sudden crystal clarity that he was going to lose.  Maxwell knew him too well, knew how to manipulate him body and mind, and even that thought made it worse, escalated his whimpering and moaning into heavy, incoherent cries, trying to beg for mercy with a useless tongue.  
  
"Must be out of my head." A trickle of ash fell onto his neck and Wilson keened loudly, panting. "I almost feel sorry for you." Maxwell’s voice was a deep growl, and the tip of his cigar glowed bright as he inhaled. "You want me to finish this?" His lips spread in a vicious grin as he reached up to them. "Fine."  
  
It was a trick, a cruel trick, he wouldn’t let him go this easily, he had to—  
  
Maxwell crushed the cigar into Wilson’s chest and he screamed as the pain seared down to the bone, sick with arousal, unable to hear or or see or think as he came, the pleasure too intense for relief, the burn too sweet for release, everything beautifully perversely flipped as he convulsed under his master, forcing him deeper than he could stand, oh _God_ it was all more than he could stand and he couldn’t sate himself on it, was drunk on sensation that kept heightening, and he lost his breath as Maxwell came inside him, lost himself, lost everything.  
  
He kept his eyes closed as the handcuffs were unlocked.  He tried automatically to turn onto his side and was pushed back easily, Maxwell’s hand over the burn, heart fluttering beneath it, the thick heat still rolling over him in waves.  It was only as he let him go that he risked a glance, cringing.  
  
Maxwell rubbed ash between his fingertips for a moment before glancing down. “…well.  Don’t suppose I can expect better than that.  Not from you, anyway.”  
  
Wilson closed his eyes again, coloring, tension draining from his aching shoulders. “…thh…” He swallowed. “…th-thank you.  Maxwell.”  
  
He gathered his breath in the ensuing silence, Maxwell’s clothes rustling as he…as he did whatever he did to clean Wilson’s spent arousal from himself when their affairs were over, he was always too ashamed to look and Maxwell seemed to like it that way.  He tried again to pull himself onto his side, and this time, he wasn’t stopped.  
  
"…you really like gettin’ roughed up, huh."  
  
Wilson bit his lip and nodded.  
  
"…you gonna tell me why?"  
  
He sighed mutely and started rubbing his leg.  There wasn’t any edge in Maxwell’s tone, just even curiosity, but that was worse.  He didn’t understand why he needed what he did, he just…did, had suspected long before falling in love with a voice on the radio and then had it proven in practical form a thousand times since then. “…d-don’t know.”  
  
"And this?"  
  
Wilson started as Maxwell took him by the wrist, and he almost protested that the bloody stripes on them weren’t his idea, then realized what he meant as the unattended ache in his thigh started to come back. “It—it’s not the same, it’s—” He shook his head, squirming uncomfortably. “…it doesn’t…” He swallowed, his voice suddenly thick. “…the r-rest…goes away.  …this doesn’t.”  
  
Maxwell was silent, but let him go, watching him briefly before turning away.  
  
"Wh-where—" Wilson tried to sit up, regretted it. "— _nnh_ —”  
  
"Stay down, pet.  Need something for that burn."  
  
He didn’t have time to think about saying it, and wouldn’t have if he had. “—l-leave it.”  
  
Maxwell paused at the door. “…you kiddin’ me?”  
  
Wilson curled in tighter on himself, free hand covering the burn. “I-if you…if you were serious.  About a ruh—r-r-r, reward.” He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “…leave it.  …please.”  
  
He flinched as Maxwell sat down next to him, turning him onto his back, expression unreadable. “It’s gonna mark up.”  
  
"I know.  I nuh, know, I…" He gritted his teeth, cheeks burning. "I’m already m-m-m— _marked_ up, I’m tired of—t-tired of looking at myself and seeing all these s-scars that aren’t going to—it’s—it’s yours and—”  
  
Maxwell covered his mouth and he shuddered fitfully. “Shh.” He traced the scar on Wilson’s chest. “You serious about this?”  
  
Wilson nodded, then hissed breath through his teeth as Maxwell ran a hand over his bad leg, trying to protest—he had said “anything” but Maxwell _knew_ not to—  
  
"This is where it hurts?"  
  
He looked down at Maxwell’s hand on his thigh, confused, then nodded slowly, comprehending.  
  
Maxwell sighed and took off one glove. “You’re _serious_ about this.”  
  
No.  No he wasn’t, it was insane, it was perverse and sick and he wanted it, he wanted it too much to say. “…please.”  
  
"Bite on this.  And…don’t look."  
  
Wilson shut his eyes obediently, gingerly sinking his teeth into the glove, trying not to damage it.  The silence drew out, the taste of leather and nicotine smothering, the waiting more so, Maxwell’s hand unmoving on his leg.  How was he even going to—  
  
The burn was sudden, precise, immense, horrendous, and Wilson bit hard into leather, screamed into it, his muscles taut wire, hands white-knuckled into the sheets, the one thought breaking through the dizzy agony _oh yes he has ways_ —  
  
And then the thorns receded, and Maxwell— _master_ —was rubbing skillfully around the brand, bringing Wilson closer to murmur into his ear.  
  
"Shhhh.  Done.  Over.  It’s over, calm down, sweetheart…"  
  
The gag was pulled from his mouth, and he pressed a badly shaking hand to his eye, pawing away the tears.  The hurt was already softening, but he drew a deep breath before daring to look down.  
  
Wilson turned his head, not understanding what he was seeing, but as he ran nervous fingertips over it, the shape formed in his head.  The silhouette of a pawn was raised in bright red on his skin.  A thought struck him, and he positioned his hand like he did every night, closing his hand over where the real pain was, deep down.  
  
The mark fit perfectly to the center of his palm.  
  
"Give you something else to think abou…" Maxwell narrowed his eyes as Wilson started laughing quietly. " _Wilson_.”  
  
He shook his head quickly, trying to keep the tic from the corner of his mouth, trying to show the gratitude in his eyes, but he couldn’t manage the words, and he shook his head again, leaning up.  
  
Maxwell stiffened when he kissed him—he always did, at first—but it was easier than words, and he relented, running a hand up Wilson’s back to stroke his hair before giving it a brief, aggressive yank to cut him off. “Take care of it.  If I see any of that not healing clean, I’ll have to start it over so you can _practice_.”  
  
Wilson shuddered, ghosts rapping briefly at the back of his mind at the thought of infection—rotting— “—of c-c-c-c— _course_ —b-bandages, salves, I, I-I-I have s-some spider th—things I f-found in the b-basement, I wuh—w-w-w-w—”  
  
"Good boy." Being cut off usually sent a jag of frustration up Wilson’s spine, but this time it was a kindness. "I’ll start you off, though.  Burns are…" Something distant flickered in his eyes. "…burns are a nasty business."  
  
"…thank you." It wasn’t the first time Wilson had wondered what kind of scars his master carried.  It wasn’t the first time he almost asked before letting the question settle back under his skin.  He had glimpsed some of Maxwell’s life Before in offhand comments and distracted glances, and he imagined there were cruelties there that didn’t bear discussing.  
  
There always were.  
  
The mood passed as quickly as it had come, though, and Maxwell shook his head and smirked as he lifted Wilson’s arm, inspecting the blood trickling from his wrist. “Heh.  Warned you those suckers bite.  Let me get something to clean this up.”  
  
Wilson bristled, then laughed helplessly as Maxwell went to the cabinet. “It’s…f-funny, really.  When I w-was younger, I thought I’d be an, er…w-well, an escape artist.”  
  
Maxwell snorted. “You?”  
  
"I, I—m-my parents were suh, s-s-s— _spiritualists_.  They took me to m-magic shows, it looked…it always l- _looked_ easy.” He rubbed his thigh, trying not to look pleased with the feel of the elaborate design under his palm, not quite managing it.  
  
"Yeah?" Maxwell doused a handkerchief in alcohol. "I can imagine how that went, but _please_ , go on.”  
  
Wilson hissed as he dabbed at the gashes, as much from embarrassment as from the sting. “…w-w-was in that cabinet for half a day before a-anyone noticed.”  
  
Maxwell laughed, and Wilson couldn’t quite resist a smile.  God knew he had done enough foolish things as a child, better to focus on that than the foolish things he did—kept doing—as an adult.  
  
"Bet that changed your mind pretty quick."  
  
"Ah, actually, n-no.  I…f-figured I could get it right.  It was something else, i-it…" Wilson closed his eyes, thinking. "…th-there was one…p-particular show that we went to, and it…gave me r, _real_ purpose.  It was all…I d-don’t remember it as well as I’d like, I was v, very young, still, b-but the illusions…they were perfect.  T-too perfect.  I wanted s-so badly to figure out how they were done, I…” He smiled distantly. “I b-began looking for books on science the very n-next day.  …I g-guess I never stopped.  The, the school l-librarian showed an interest, she…”  
  
Wilson trailed off, broken out of his reverie.  Maxwell had stopped.  
  
"…well?"  
  
He shook his head, flustered. “I—n-nothing, just…silliness.”  
  
There was another silence, then Maxwell started bandaging his wrist.  His tone was flat, but it tended to be when Wilson ended up rambling. “So who was this…benefactor of yours?”  
  
"C-Carter.  William Carter." He hesitated as Maxwell paused again. "I…I tried to luh, l-look him up later, but he must h-have gotten a stage name, I c-couldn’t…"  
  
Maxwell tied off the bandage. “He died.”  
  
"—oh?" Wilson opened his eyes, but Maxwell was already taking his other wrist. "I…see.  It’s…i-it’s no matter.  It’s just…" He shrugged lamely. "…silliness."  
  
He was still for a moment, not sure what he was expecting, a reprimand for talking out of turn, or…or something else, but Maxwell didn’t respond, and he closed his eyes again, lulled by the soothing of his wounds.  
  
Maxwell let his pet drift as he worked, his movements meticulous, precise, rote.  If it had been another night, he might have left him, but he had performed well, desperate to please, and he had earned…  
  
Well.  Some things Maxwell earned himself.  
  
Anyway, burns _were_ a nasty business.  
  
As he pushed Wilson onto his back, he noted, again, the line of even indentations on his glove.  Wilson hadn’t noticed how hard he had bitten down—the man could be almost stubbornly blind sometimes.  He could replace it easily, with a wave of his hand, as it were, but he wasn’t going to.  
  
Maxwell touched the burn on his pet’s leg and smiled thinly, ruefully as he shivered.  
  
They were marking each other.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to thegrinningcrow for beauty mark design and constant enabling
> 
> If ages seem off here, it's because I started this with the incorrect notion that Wilson had been pulled in 1928, not 1919. I have no idea why, but it's an aberration that's stuck.


End file.
